The Hermit
by Rico Perrien
Summary: Arthur Potter inherits an island from his three-times great grandfather. He learns some history. AU Slightly dark and definitely cranky HP
1. The Inheritance

**The Hermit**

**Timeframe: **AU Post almost everything.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any rights to Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Long John Silver, or any other literary inventions by others. I accept that I own some minor blame for dubious characters of my own invention, and the situations in this story, but little else. And frankly, I could use the money if I did, but I don't, so no money made, received or bequeathed. This story exists purely for my own entertainment, and hopefully that of others who have as little discretion or taste as I do.

**Warning:** Character death, but in an appropriate time and place. Very slightly dark and very cranky Harry

**A/N:** This story was inspired, in small part, by the song "Western Island' by Archie Fisher. Any similarities between this story and others are unintentional, and any resemblance to real human behaviour is highly unlikely.

Chapter 1: The Inheritance

In the Outer Hebrides off the northwest coast of Scotland (on the side away from the North Sea oil fields), there is said to lie a small haunted island.

Non-magical fisher-folk know that it is there because to the behaviour of the seabirds, but none have ever seen the land itself. There was often strange weather around where the island was thought to be, with odd swirls in the clouds, and storm clouds that looked like there was some sort of heat over an area not known to have ever had volcanos or hot-springs.

It is rumoured that it might be the fabled island of Avalon, which is said to be the resting place of King Arthur, and the hiding place for the sword Excalibur, but these are stories told around the fire on cold nights, and were not taken as being anything other than a way to pass the time. Many an older person has commented that, if it is the place where Arthur met the Lady of the Lake, they had both be wearing weather gear and long underwear, as the seas around where the island is said to be are cold and harbour rich fishing grounds. Now and again, an old man could be seen in a dory which would then fade into the mists and fog.

At other times, strangers would come into the fishing villages for supplies, but these were usually thought to be just adventurous tourists. However, about once a year just before the winter storms set in, a very old man wearing a shabby old cloak would come to one of the villages to pick up a shipment of several cases of whisky from one of the famous local distilleries – he was often accompanied by a very short person in another heavy cloak, who would help carry the precious cargo to his small boat. It was whispered that the smaller of the two was a leprechaun over from Ireland (which was very close), given his stature and apparent strength in carrying the cases of the 'water of life'.

Magical folk know that the island has been seen, but only by their forefathers and mothers, or by the very oldest among them. It is assumed that there are strong spells hiding the island, which would fail on occasion, but then be renewed.

February 23, 2161

The Unspeakable sat at his desk in the basement of the Ministry of Magic building in Coventry, the new capital of England since the rising sea waters had inundated London. He was doing whatever it was that the Unspeakables did in their secret lair, and about which they were not allowed, and due to their magical oaths not able, to talk about.

He was brought out of his contemplation by a slight popping sound, and looked up to see an ancient house elf standing beside him. The old creature was in tears, and holding a key and a piece of parchment.

Arthur Potter looked at the elf. "Hello Hamish. I haven't seen you for many years now. I take it that the old man had died."

The elf nodded. "That is true, Master Potter. Your grandsire is now 'The Potter', and head of your clan. However, the Master has sent me with these as his final gifts to you. The island and the dwelling are yours, and this fact is noted in his will, which is to be read in three days at Gringott's."

Arthur's eyebrows raised. "I thought Gringott's was still in London."

Hamish nodded. "They have set wards against the waters, but they have set up floo connections both here, in their Edinburgh office by the castle, at Amesbury near Stonehenge, and in Birmingham. That way, most beneficiaries can get there with only one or two connections."

Arthur nodded as he thanked the ancient elf. He looked at the ornate brass key, which showed none of the salt water corrosion he would have expected on an iron key. He then looked at the parchment.

It read:

'Dear Great-great great grandson,

The calculations we discussed have proved pretty much correct, that a wizard's lifespan is related to his power level. Last summer I passed my 180th birthday, so I figure I have been living on borrowed time since then, as your equations gave my 179.3 years. If you are receiving this, please get the final date from Hamish so you can adjust the parameters in the calculation. I don't know if the malnutrition and abuse in my first eleven years might have reduced the lifespan, but they are factors that you can add to the number-crunching.

As I told you the last time we spoke, the island and all it contains are now yours. It should be adequate to your needs, as it is over a hundred kilometres from the nearest other land and under secrecy charms, so it should be good for whatever secret, dangerous, and noisy experiments you and your boys and girls might want to carry out. Please don't scare the sheep, for they are timid creatures. If necessary, herd them into the winter caverns before doing what you need to do outside. The dogs know what to do – they are telepathic, being descendants of Helga Hufflepuff's Susan.

I know we discussed the possibilities of the Fidelius surviving me, when I cast the charm on my home in my self-imposed exile. It falls to you to confirm this, or to demonstrate its fallacies, which gives you the opportunity to add to your professional knowledge. In case it does not fail when I do, the Hermitage is located on Arthur's Island, at coordinates 59° 12' 33"N and 7° 40' 14"W. I have arranged with Gringott's that they will have a curse-breaker available to remove the Fidelius if it has not failed, so that you can set up one of your own for your own convenience.

My will is with Gringott's, but there will be a couple of documents on the table in the main room. One is general instructions on care and feeding of the animals, and some other matters concerning the island. Don't worry too much about the animals and the farming, the elves and the dogs know most of what to do – it's like in the military, the ranks know what to do, the officer's job is just to tell them who to do it to. The other is some random thoughts and reminiscences, which you may or may not share, at your own discretion.

With Love and respect,

Harry'

Arthur smiled at the signature. From the discussions he and his ancestor had had during some of the elder wizard's brief sojourns out from his hidden place, Arthur knew that for most of his life, Harry had been searching for a community or a place where he could be 'Just Harry'. He was glad that the old man felt he had achieved at least one of his life-long dreams.

He then looked up from reading the note, and say Hamish standing there, looking nervous. He asked what was wrong and how could he help.

The old elf gulped, and said, "Arthur Potter. You are now the Master of Arthur's Island. I have served as the head elf on the island and bonded to the 'Master of the Island' for over three hundred years. I have served the Potter family for over four hundred years. Humans come and go, while we elves endure. I wish to continue serving your family on the island. Arthur Potter, will you accept my bond?"

As Arthur nodded, the elf smiled, and a dim beam of blue light passed between the two as Hamish bonded to Arthur.

After the elf thanked Arthur for the privilege, Arthur asked Hamish if he could take him to the island so he would not have to work out the apparition coordinates himself. The elf nodded, and said "Of course. You are the Master of the Island, and it is now my duty to take you there, if that is your wish."


	2. The Island

**The Hermit**

**Timeframe: **AU Post almost everything.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any rights to Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Long John Silver, or any other literary inventions by others. I accept that I own some minor blame for dubious characters of my own invention, and the situations in this story, but little else. And frankly, I could use the money if I did, but I don't, so no money made, received or bequeathed. This story exists purely for my own entertainment, and hopefully that of others who have as little discretion or taste as I do.

**Warning:** Character death, but in an appropriate time and place. Very slightly dark and very cranky Harry

**A/N:** This story was inspired, in small part, by the song "Western Island' by Archie Fisher. Any similarities between this story and others are unintentional, and any resemblance to real human behaviour is highly unlikely.

Chapter 2: The Island

Arthur turned to the wall of his office and said "Map!" The wall to the left of his desk changed to the large wall map showing the entire world. He smiled and said "Arthur's Island". The map split into four quadrants, the uppermost left one showing the island in the Outer Hebrides, the lower left one showing Isola di Arturo off the Italian coast, and the quadrants to the right side showing two islands labelled in scripts and languages with which Arthur was not at all familiar.

Arthur pointed his wand at the upper left screen and stated "Enlarge."

Unlike the minority of Britain's wizarding population who felt that anything the muggles had invented (and in particular anything since Good Queen Vicky's consort had kicked the royal bucket) was not to be tolerated, the Department of Mysteries had never had any such stupid prejudice, and had always had the latest magic-compatible electronic equipment. Much of it was invented by the Americans and the Japanese, both of which had lost most of their coastal cities with the rising seas. The Americans had largely ignored the threat and suffered the consequences (what had been Silicon Valley two centuries ago was now Silicon Inlet), while the Japanese, having greater experience with the capricious whims of nature, had moved their essential industries uphill. The large computerized map on the office wall was a combination of a scalable, expandable computer screen and the spells from the old Marauder's Map that one of his great (to the fourth power) grandmothers and his four-times great grandfathers had helped invent.

Looking off the coast of the Isle of Lewis, Arthur's Island was now showing up on the map where it had not been visible the previous week. Zooming in, the landscape of the island became visible, although the dwelling was not clearly shown. Rotating the view, Arthur spotted doors and windows in the side of the hill facing south-east, away from the prevailing winds, and a couple large doors to the east of the entrance to the underground house. Hamish commented that building the dwelling underground made it easier to keep it comfortable without too much effort.

He noted that the main entrance to the dwelling was a large circular door, with the doorknob in the centre, a constant reminder of his great³ grandmother Hermione's favourite books.

The map showed no humans on the island, but did note a number of elves, showing their names and their locations. In the fields were a number of points marked 'Sheep (unnamed)', and two marked 'Rufus (Sheepdog)' and 'Griselda (sheepdog)', plus three puppies whose names that not yet been entered into the database.

There was a small fenced area in a protected notch on the south side of the island's hills. Arthur remembered his last visit to the island, many years ago, and the time his great³ grandfather had spent there, standing in silence. He had stood away, respecting Harry's privacy.

Arthur returned to his desk, signed out his timesheet stating he was leaving on 'family business', and nodding to Hamish and taking the old elf's hand, vanished from his office.

Arthur and Hamish returned to reality from wherever they had existed during their apparition, to stand in front of the dwelling on Arthur's Island, which was now indeed Arthur's Island. Where they had appeared was on a low plain which ran from the edge of the central mountain down to the sea. The mountain itself was more of a high plateau rather than a tall peak, and the ground was covered in grasses and other low plants. Up the eastern side of the mountain, or hill, or whatever a geologist would call it, there were stands of bracken, myrtle and heather. Although it was still winter (at least on the mainland), the heather on the lea side of the hill was in bloom and the purple flowers covered the hillsides.

The terrain looked as if it had been windswept since the end of the last ice age, but the air was warm and the sun was shining. Arthur looked around, and saw that, some distance offshore, the island was surrounded by tall clouds.

As he turned to Hamish to ask, the ancient elf smiled and said, "If you're going to ask about the odd weather here, as I suspect, Miss Luna had a chat with the weather elemental a while back, and they decided to play a little joke on the people who might come looking for this place. From outside the home area, they have the North Atlantic storms and seas, but here we are protected. As a trade-off, sort of averaging out the difference, you know, the storms around the island are a bit worse than farther away. It gives the outsiders all the more cause to avoid the place."

Arthur asked how long this situation had been in place. Hamish looked a bit sad, and said "It was back about a century and a half ago, on one of Luna's first visits. She was a nice lassie, and you know she is buried in the small graveyard over there near the house", pointing towards the small fenced-off area.

From discussions and visits with his ancestor, he knew that there was the small graveyard, but didn't know all of who were 'resident' there. He knew that it was somewhere he would need to visit, and soon.

Arthur nodded. He said, "Harry said there was a note on the upkeep of the place, and a document for me to read. Can we go into the house so I can tend to them?"

Hamish smiled. "I can tell you most of what's in the first note, myself, but you will want to get a firm grasp of it yourself. After all, you are now Master of the Island, but most of the running of the place, we elves manage and have done so for many years."

"The main issues have to do with the weather. Gustav, the weather elemental for this area, has to rain and snow on us every now and again. Union rules, or something like that. He usually gives us a couple days warning, so we can get the sheep into the caverns. The caves have some heating, some natural and some magic, and we also keep the beehives in them – it's too far from the mainland for the wee beasties to fly, and we need to pollinate the plants – if we didn't protect them, we would have to do the job ourselves, and do you have any idea how many flowers a stand of heather produces? Even with magic, it takes us elves almost a week to get it done. No thanks, we'll protect the bees."

Smiling, Hamish said, "Of elves, there is myself and my wife Marta, and our kids, and Gordon and his family. Gordie's bunch do most of the outside work, but we all pitch in. The old Master, bless him and rest his soul, didn't really make enough work for two elf families. So we would take it kindly if you are as messy as possible, and being an outright slob would not be unwelcome."

The dogs do most of the work with the sheep – I'll need to introduce you to Rufus and Griselda and their pups." At this point, over the rise between the home yard and the pasture came two large hairy dogs and three small bundles of fur gallumphing along as puppies do. The two adult dogs came up to Arthur. Although he could 'hear' their names clearly in his mind, larger of the two adult dogs seemed to smile and say "Aroor? Grslla", after which the other nodded and said "Roofus!" The pups ran up exuberantly, barking out "Brakus", "Mrry", and "Ralph". Arthur smiled and said "I am very glad to meet you all, Griselda, Rufus, Markus, Mary and Ralph." He knelt down and shook paws with the three pups, and scratched the heads of the adults, a gesture which seemed to meet with their approval.

The dogs seemed to smile, and mentally welcomed him, and then turned and headed back over the rise to their charges.

As they headed back towards the house, Hamish added, "I do not know your tastes in drink, but the old Master laid in a good supply of single malts, and from his travels to the Americas he brought back an assortment of hardy berries that survive in our climate and make a passable wine. I don't care for the buffalo-berry wine myself, but the Saskatoon wine is nice on a hot day although sometimes a little thin."

"The Master's old friend Neville did some work to try to raise grapes to satisfy Harry's second wife, who missed her family's vineyards, but without much success. She did not care for the island much so they lived on the mainland for most of her life, and he returned her body to her family's chateau at the end. There's a memorial plaque on the wall at the graveyard for her, and for others that do not rest here."

"Once we have taken our walk and acquainted you with the place, you may want a dram. I know I will, after you visit the graves, which seems to be the first thing you humans always want to do. It's not the elf way, but it does seem to be the way of your folk. I should let you know that my folks can be as set in our ways as yours, but Harry always treated us all as equals, and dealt with all creatures equally. As your people have strived to overcome your self-centred view with Harry's guidance, so have mine but it is sometimes hard after so many long years to change our ways. Please bear with us."

By this point, the two had reached the small graveyard some thirty metres from the front door of the underground dwelling. Hamish looked up at Arthur and asked, "Were you aware that five of your great-great-great grandmothers are buried here?"

Arthur looked puzzled. "I thought Harry had only married twice, to Gabrielle and Ginny."

The elf nodded. "Lady Hermione and Susan Longbottom moved into some of Harry's properties during the Second Malfoy Insurrection, when their husbands were killed and the bad guys were murdering muggleborns. To be under Harry's protection, you might say. Muggle graveyards were getting desecrated, off and on over the last century and a half, mostly vandals, but sometimes purists, so they asked to be buried here, and Harry agreed with their wishes. Miss Luna lived here with Harry for the last ten years of her life, but they never married, and I have no official 'idea' whether they were anything more than friends. Hannah and Seamus Finnegan asked to be buried here with their friends, but Lady Longbottom was buried in her husband's family crypt, at her request."

"Did you know that your generation was the first to overcome the 'Potter' Decree' and bring all these family lines together?" The Potter Decree had been issued during Harry's tenure as Dictator, forbidding magicals to marry relatives closer than their third cousins, on pain of having their inheritances confiscated by and split between the goblins at Gringott's and the Ministry.

"You'll see in his note that he used the same policy with the sheepdogs, and there's a list of some fifty magical families with different lines of the dogs, to keep the genetic diversity at an acceptable level. Doesn't have the same financial implications however – even if the dogs are very intelligent, they really don't go in for bank accounts much. Maybe that shows they are even more intelligent."

Hamish shook his head. "Harry always laughed about how stupid and arrogant most wizards are. He said that the whole issue of proclaiming that they won the so-called 'Goblin Rebellions' was a massive delusion to sooth wounded egos. He often asked himself aloud, how can anyone believe that the wizards won, forbidding goblins to use wands which they had never used anyway, and then put the goblins on the losing side in charge of all the money and being final arbitrators of wizarding inheritances and family law. Stupid, stupid, stupid."

"Contrary to the common belief, Harry didn't retire here out of fear of the 'Big Bad Witches' as he called them, but out of disgust. In the last twenty years, he said that if he hadn't left, he would have gone back and murdered the whole lot of them – if he had to put up with sheep, he would rather he at least got some wool out of the deal."

The old elf said "I'll leave you to you meditations", and walked towards the front door of the house while Arthur went over to the small graveyard. There was a small section of neatly laid out graves with very modest headstones. The small size of the memorials had always surprised Arthur, given the importance of those interred there to the wizarding society, but then, the few who had access to this memorial plot were not those who were impressed by ostentation.

There was a new grave, freshly dug, which Arthur initially assumed (correctly) contained the remains of his great-great-great grandfather. No ceremony, no elaborate statue, just a small plaque with Harry's name and dates.

Nearby were the graves of Harry's friends who were buried in this hidden place. He paused at one marked 'Ginevra Molly Weasley, Lady Potter. A woman of fire', and another listing 'Luna Dryad Lovegood Scamander, Beloved Friend and Daughter of the Sky'. To the side nearest the dwelling was the grave of 'Hermione Granger-Weasley, Lady of Wisdom. She loves the door'.

Along the side of the graveyard was a long wall which protected the rest of the plot from the west winds, and commemorating some whose bones were not 'in residence'. It was labelled 'In Memory- Respects and Lessons'. Harry had mentioned that some of the names were not relations, but those he had wished to remember. He had pointed out to Arthur that some lessons were more expensive than others, which made them more valuable and more important to remember.

At one end of the wall, it was marked 'In Memorium', and the other 'Lessons which we must not forget'. Below the first section were names, dates and a brief description of lessons Harry felt he had learned from the people. Images of people were carved into the wall – as with wizarding photographs from Harry's youth, some of the images moved, while those of the muggles he wished to remember, did not.

The first image showed a beautiful woman with long blonde hair blowing as if with a stiff breeze. Below the image was the inscription 'Gabrielle Marie Angelique Delacour Potter, Lady Black, Daughter of the Wind. "Vole mon coeur vole" (Arthur recognized the ancient Canadian folk-song that Harry had loved) Sometimes an entire lifetime is too short'. The next showed a couple, whose image did not move, marked 'Elbereth Anne Lafey Granger, Gil-galad George Granger, Friends and Parents of a Beloved Friend, We stole their daughter from them and they never truly forgave us nor her.'

The next image was of an elderly witch entitled 'Minerva Heather Elspeth McGonagall, Teacher, Mentor, Friend, "Don't take on more tasks than you can properly handle"'. The next was of a bearded wizard marked 'Albus P.W.B. Dumbledore, Mentor and Teacher, Don't Believe your own press releases'.

Towards the other end of the wall were images and dates of those whose lessons Harry had said were very important. The first showed a pair of people Arthur recognised from his history lessons. The pictures were of an obviously very self-important man, and an ugly toad-like woman. Below their names and dates was a quote from another Canadian folksong that Harry had learned during his travels – "Let the world retain in memory that mighty tongues tell mighty lies". The last two images were of two muggles, one a husky looking man named Henry Kissinger, with the quote 'Power is the Ultimate Aphrodisiac'. The last was of a man with a bushy moustache and wild hair, labelled Albert Einstein, with the notation that he had shown conclusively that, not only wizarding society, but the entire universe is warped.

Author's notes: The first song was 'Vive La Canadienne' which was the most popular song in Quebec until 'O Canada' was written in the late 1800's. It is now the official march-past music of the Royal 22nd Canadian Regiment (aka the Van-Doos).

The second quotation was from the song 'Going Down Slow' by Bruce Cockburn


	3. Confessions and Meditations

**The Hermit**

**Timeframe: **AU Post almost everything.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any rights to Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Long John Silver, or any other literary inventions by others. I accept that I own some minor blame for dubious characters of my own invention, and the situations in this story, but little else. And frankly, I could use the money if I did, but I don't, so no money made, received or bequeathed. This story exists purely for my own entertainment, and hopefully that of others who have as little discretion or taste as I do.

**Warning:** Character death, but in an appropriate time and place. Very slightly dark and very cranky Harry

**A/N:** This story was inspired, in small part, by the song "Western Island' by Archie Fisher. Any similarities between this story and others are unintentional, and any resemblance to real human behaviour is highly unlikely.

Chapter 3: Confessions and Meditations

As Arthur Potter entered the round door of the dwelling on what was now his island, the old elf Hamish, who was now bonded to him, handed him a glass of amber liquid. The wrinkled elf said "I hope you like this. Harry was given it in America on one of his trips, from a friend who knew he had gone to Hogwarts in Scotland. It seems that it was either named for a magically hidden Scottish mountain which was accidentally revealed to the muggles, or the name of the guy who owned the liquor store in Peoria. It's been in Harry's cellars here for more than a hundred years."

Arthur took a sip of the rather pedestrian blended Scotch, and asked, "And what is it named?"

The elf smiled. "It's called 'Ben Schwartz'."

Laughing, Arthur moved to the table located in the main sitting room. Like all wizarding dwellings, the underground house appeared to be much larger on the inside than out, and he suspected it would take him some time to explore the place.

On the table were two parchments. On the top of one was written 'Care and Maintenance of Arthur's Island', and on the other was written 'Last Testament of Harry James Potter'.

Picking up the first document Arthur found that Hamish's earlier comments were largely accurate, and that most of the 'looking after' was handled competently by the elves and the sheep-dogs. However, as he watched, additional text appeared at the bottom of the second page. It read:

'As Master of the Island, it is now your privilege to know that this is indeed Arthur's Island, or as it was previously called, Avalon. You may remember when I was the head of the Auror's Academy, training both Aurors and junior Unspeakables in detecting hidden magical objects, coming to an island (which was this island, under the Fidelius so you would not have remembers the location). King Arthur's ancient tomb is located in the northwest corner of the island under the purple granite outcropping.

Please do not bring in cursebreakers to remove the protections on his tomb. I feel that he is cursed with being 'on call' when Britain needs him most (according to the legend of the once and future King), although I wonder what could be worse than what we have been through, both magical and muggle, the last couple centuries. The poor bastard (and this is an exact description) was born through interference by a manipulative old wizard who had decided that he knew better than anyone else what needed to be done (sound familiar?), spent his life accomplishing great things, only to have the love of his live have an affair with his best friend, and then have the whole glorious edifice come crashing down by the greed and wickedness of the next generation.

I figure the old guy deserves his rest, in peace. So please don't bother him. Okay?

Smiling at this plea from his ancestor, Arthur picked up the next piece of parchment. It read:

The Last Testament of Harry James Potter

I have always found it strange that everyone writes a 'Last Will and Testament', but actually write a last will, with no testament stating their beliefs and thoughts. As you were told, my last will is at Gringott's, and you hold in your hand my last testament (or rant, if you prefer). Anyway, here goes.

In my life, I was only really good at three things:

Flying on a broom,

Bringing down dark wizards, and

Pissing off people who for some reason thought it was my destiny and duty to solve problems which were caused by their own actions in the first place. Just prior to my solving of said problems, they were praising me to the skies, in part due to some event which somehow occurred when I was an infant and of which I have to this day neither recollection or explanation, and I was called everything including Merlin's re-incarnation. And just afterwards, I was the worst incarnation of evil ever known and the next Dark-Lord-in-waiting.

You need to recall that I was raised in an abusive household until I was eleven, and then brought into the magical world at Hogwarts, where I was alternately praised for the self-same event in infancy or abused for the same reason, or from the expectation that I was using this event (of which at the time I had absolutely no knowledge) to claim superiority (usually by those who were themselves claiming to be superior, in spite of all evidence to the contrary).

For some reason, people assumed that somehow, with this history, I would turn out to be a nice guy and an all-round good and kind person. I was destined (I was finally told after years of being thrown into deadly situations which somehow, by blind luck, or the stupidity of my opponents I managed to survive) to be the saviour of wizard-kind and the envy of all, as well as being the object of desire of witch-kind.

They were wrong. I managed to survive and continue to do so, mainly because I saw no reason for me to be nice to those who were coming after or against me. I had tried to stay 'under the radar', as the saying goes, and attempted to be nice to people who were nice to me, solely as a survival tactic and nothing else. I killed the late and very-unlamented Tom Riddle (aka Lord Voldemort) not to fulfill a destiny or to save the wizarding world (who had never done me any favours) but just to get the son-of-a-witch to finally leave me the hell alone!

After school, I became an Auror, with my friend Ron Weasley, because people kept coming after me, and I felt that, at least this way, I had the law and the Ministry on what I saw as my side, for once.

Because of family inheritances, I held two seats in the Wizengamot, and using my prestige and power (and a bit of subtle bribery, to be completely honest) had them pass laws which appeared to promote equality for all races and all blood purity status. Again. I did this not to promote any feel-good utopia, but to bring down the pure-blood assholes who just wouldn't get off my back.

Call me egocentric or selfish. Whatever. So what? It got the job done.

They soon found out that Ron was good at interrogation, and planning operations, but that I was largely useless at these functions. However, I was very _very_ good at taking down the bad guys, so I rose rapidly through the ranks of the hit wizards, which as you know were the special tactics and weapons group (similar to the muggle SWAT teams). Eventually I rose to be the head of the section, and the chief operational instructor at the academy.

After being in the aurors for seventy years, I retired at age ninety, and went to work as a teacher of flying and defense at Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, Kapuskasing Magical Arts in Canada, and the Salem Academy in the US, not all at the same time of course. I had gotten tired of going after the nasties, but unfortunately, they refused to return the favour.

About the middle of my first hundred years, while I was a senior HW, one of Draco Malfoy's grandchildren decided I had been the personal cause of the downfall in his family's fortunes, and that I should be taught a lesson of the proper place of a half-blood. That was the first Malfoy Insurrection. The wizarding population decided that, as the man who defeated Voldemort, it was my job to put down the rebellion (against their rule and cushy lifestyles). As I was taking Ministry pay, it actually was my job, but I could see that the cause was the whole 'pure-bloods should be in charge of everything' attitude which had been such a pain in my early life, and remained so for a good part of it.

Near the end of my one-hundredth year on this planet, one of Draco Malfoy's descendants decided again that I was the cause of all the evil in the world which was befalling the pure-bloods, including their low-birthrates and high percentage of squib offspring. This time, they went after my family and friends (as I am sure Hamish told you of how some of my friends and their families fled to be under my protection), figuring that I was personally too dangerous (although due to my age, and the fact that none of the ring-leaders had been alive during my last major actions, they may have thought that my reputation was sheer legend and not to be believed under any circumstances). Of course by this time, a lot of the people at the Ministry were my descendants (and your relatives), so the first attacks were on the Ministry.

Perhaps I was being selfish and paranoid again, but covert information said it was actually once more primarily an attack on the Potter line– it is said that when they are after you, paranoia is just straight thinking. The high-and-mighty Wizengamot of course interpretted this as an attack on their power, their way of life, and their continued hold on the reins of power. So again, the powers-that-be decided that I was the man who should put down the insult to their being in charge, and wanting to get back to their self-aggrandized self-importance.

This time, they (or rather someone who had not quite fallen asleep during Binn's classes) looked back to Roman time, and proposed they make me Dictator for the duration of the rebellion. However, they hadn't remembered it all, and at this point I had had all I could take. They wanted Cincinnatus, but what they got was Julius Caesar, or maybe even Caligula. The first thing a Roman Dictator did was always to conduct a purge of his enemies.

I have come to the conclusion that the main curse of wizarding folk in our long life-span. This may seem like a serious digression at this point, but bear with me.

I have studied muggle history and military tactics, largely as background for my work as a hit wizard and instructor of defence. Muggles are frighteningly ingenious at developing new and efficient ways of killing each other. Therefore, when the hit wizards were trained in some of their techniques (which the pure-bloods distained, or were just blissfully unaware, being as all things muggle were 'below them'), our side always won with very few casualties.

It is my considered opinion that the pure-blood hatred for muggles has nothing to do with them being inferior. You don't hate people who are inferior; you hate those who are a serious threat to you and your way of life. Muggles outnumber us wizarding folk by about a thousand to one, and with their lethal technologies they could wipe us out without blinking an eye. In America, they lose a number of people equal to the entire British wizarding population each and every year from vehicle accidents, and they think nothing of it, and that's just from accidents. If they got riled up and meant to kill, and forget the whole burning at the stake thing (which we learned at Hogwarts was entirely ineffective), we would not stand a chance. A high-velocity sniper's bullet would take out the most powerful wizard or witch, before they even heard the shot coming.

I would say that the percentage of good and bad muggles is about the same as for our magical folk, but given their numbers, this means a lot more of both. Their bad ones get really bad. The only advantage we have is that they die quicker (often by assassination – check on the history of the Emperor Caligula who was killed at the age of twenty four).

One problem with our long lifespan (and as we discussed, it does seem to be linked to our magical power rating, which I think is actually a very bad thing) is that eventually everyone you knew in your early formative years dies, and no one else knows the forces and events that shaped you into the person you are. For muggles, the events are at least more recent history, and people are still talking about them. But for example, Albus Dumbledore served in the magical corps in the Crimea War in the mid-1800's, and consequently had an absolute obsession with hygiene due to the conditions they experienced in the field (can you say "explosive dysentery"?).

Another problem is that once you have been around long enough, you feel you have seen everything, and know what to do about things, and that nobody is still around who can really tell you you're wrong. Nobody knows better than you, so because of your greater experience and wisdom, you have the right to rule everyone else's life. This was Dumbledore's main problem. A good man, but deluded by his own reputation.

Another disadvantage is that the more powerful of our folk hang around in the halls of power for much longer than is the case for muggles. In the mundane world, even the most powerful (and lucky, or at least well protected) of tyrants only lasts sixty or seventy years. When I started my political efforts, there were wizards and witches who had been sitting in the Wizengamot for the better part of two centuries. Although they did have personal memories of how certain laws came to be passed, or the events leading to their passage, they also were very reluctant to make any significant (and much needed) changes to the 'way thing had always been'.

This also leads to the dismal state of innovation in the wizarding world. Your four-times great grandfather (and namesake) Arthur Weasley could never figure out how an airplane could fly or how a battery worked, although the first had been developed a full century before, and the second two centuries! As an Unspeakable, you are well aware of muggle developments, but the bulk of the magical population is not, and is stupidly proud of that fact.

The population! With the political power resting in old and wrinkled hands for so long, our people tend to let the powers do as they please, as they have for so long. They expect everything important to be done for them, because that's the way it has always been. When any trouble starts, such as the rebellions, various Dark Lords rising or whatever, they don't think of doing anything themselves, because they never have done so! They always expect someone else to 'do the doing'. If a Dark Lord wormed his way into our society through bribery or flattery (as was almost the case in the second Voldemort War), our people would have followed him happily, because they were okay personally, and who cared if some unknown muggles were getting massacred.

Which brings me back to my three years as Dictator of the British Wizarding society.

There was a problem, and rather than try to solve it themselves, they looked for a saviour who was going to solve all their problems for them. Guess who got the job. Again! I was the one who stopped Voldemort as a baby, I was the one who finally put paid to him the second time, I was the one who led the charge in the first Malfoy Insurrection, so I was 'obviously' the perfect candidate.

I was supposed to ride in on my white charger (a unicorn of course, no muggle horse for The Hero), solve the problem, and then everything could go back to the way it had been, and all the power-brokers could go back to running the show as they always had.

Wrong!

This time I decided to fix the problems, my way. Before charging off into battle, I studied who was behind the attacks, exactly who was funding them, and what standard behaviours kept leading us into these messes about every thirty to fifty years. I learned, years before, that battles are won at the planning table, not on the battlefield where things could get very messy (although good results on the battlefield helps a bit too).

My first actions as Dictator were meant to get the systems working a little better. While people were screaming for immediate (and likely misguided) action, I put term limits on hereditary service in the Wizengamot, so that after fourty years, any member who wished to continue would have to be elected in a general election and could only serve five additional five year terms, effective retroactively. This looked good to new members who saw a long future ahead of them, but immediately eliminated about fifty obstinate old fogeys who had blocked, or attempted to block, any significant changes, such as providing new weapons and training for all aurors – after all, they really hadn't wanted aurors looking into their affairs.

The next change I imposed was the infamous Potter Decree. I did not make this retroactive, mostly because I did not want to punish any poor inbred kid who had not done anything wrong themselves, but letting their parents know that times had changed for them. I provided documentation to the Wizengamot showing that the pure-bloods were breeding themselves into extinction and this was being done for their own benefit and the 'Greater Good'. Love that phrase, don't you. It excuses all manner of atrocities.

Next and last came the Purge. I had documented the families who had supported the last three Dark Lords (Faversham, Grindewald and Voldemort), and who were still involved with the Malfoy conspiracies and attacks. Those who had been dragged in to the fold by extortion were not on the list. Stupidity was not an excuse, nor as the old claim of being under the Imperius – if that's all it took to become an unrepentant murderer, they were not welcome to stay. Then I exterminated the listed families. This included seventeen 'highly respected' members of the Wizengamot.

The hue and cry over this was really impressive. Everybody cried that they had wanted me to fix all the problems, but not that way. They wanted everything back the way it was. They wanted a new saviour to come and reverse all the changed I had made. They wanted 'Somebody Else' to fix things for them. They cried out that I owed it to them to fix things.

I made my final speech, telling them that from now on, they could fix their own problems. I had set up the Wizengamot so that they would have a strong say in who was in it, and what was to get done. I told them that running things was hard work, and if they didn't like what other people were doing for and to them, it was their responsibility to do something about it.

I told them that I had been dragged out every few years to solve problems that were not of my making nor my responsibility. I told them I had taken abuse my entire life, and that I owed them nothing. I told them I was disgusted by people who wanted someone else to do everything for them, and then get bitched at for not doing it the way they wanted. I told them if they wanted things fixed, they would have to quit behaving like sheep, and get off their collective backsides and do something about it.

I then told them I was going into exile, because I wanted absolutely nothing more to do with them, ever. And then I left.

On more personal notes:

To my sorrow, I found that Veela, being descended from birds, have only a lifespan of about 50 years. I loved Gabrielle dearly, and she left me far too soon.

I cannot say exactly when I fell in love with Ginny, who was my first wife. The first woman I came to realize I loved was married to my other best friend, and I could not see us managing a three-way relationship, with the heartache and jealousies that followed the Battle of Hogwarts. And then there was the bigotry, so a muggle-born witch married to two wizards would not have been accepted. I was devastated by the battle and its aftermath, and Ginny was there to help me through it. At first she wanted to go to all the parties in our honour, but eventually she saw how hollow the praise and adulation was, and came to hate it as much as I did. Parties with friends and family, okay, but a bunch of society glad-handers neither of us knew or liked, we did not need.

Over my life, I have had many offers of female (and male) 'companionship'. After Ginny's death (a muggle disease that her mother refused any 'muggle medicine' for, an action for which I never forgave Molly), I did take advantage of some of the female offers. Mostly, it was with lifelong friends who had lost their husbands, and it was a case of mutual comfort. Sometimes it was a case of just being lonely, here on this island alone.

Many of the offers were witches who wanted a child by the Boy-Who-Lived-and-Who Conquered-etc.-etc. As I noted in the memorial garden, power is a potent aphrodisiac, and the fan-witches (in all shapes, sizes and ages) seemed to want a piece of me. These I turned down. I created children only with those I loved, and I gave them as good an upbringing as a cranky old man could.

I and my mates limited my children to ten. I figured that, if all my descendants did likewise, by the fifth generation, my descendants would outnumber the entire British magical population as it was when I was born. I feel that nobody wanted that many Potters.

The most disturbing occurrences in my life were the carnal offers from witches, which turned out to be less-than subtle attacks on me personally. In some cases, they were active parties to anti-me conspiracies, while others were under the Imperius by my enemies. They all had either weapons, compulsions to commit murder, or carried noxious diseases which they were going to pass on to me. Auror training in legimancy and healing spells let me identify these and treat them accordingly – the ones who were active participants in the plans were placed under arrest, and the ones under compulsions were released (and cured, where appropriate) and relocated under witness protection.

In three active participation cases, they were charmed to be convinced that they had carried out their plans, and sent back to their co-conspirators with the suggestion that they celebrate carnally – when threatened, I can be a right nasty bastard!

I have come to the conclusion that, in spite of my best intentions, I am not a nice person.

Arthur, whether you publish this for public consumption, with or without editting, retain it as part of the family archives, or burn it, go ahead with my blessing. I no longer care.

Your loving ancestor

Harry James Potter.

Arthur set the document aside while he thought. The secret archives in the Department of Mysteries was definitely getting a copy, and would the family archives (which were even more securely protected).

Given his three-times great grandfather's comments, he could see him being promoted to sainthood, or having all the family properties burned to the ground with the families locked inside. Probably best to keep it under wraps, for now. Perhaps in another hundred years or so, once there was no one alive to remember the events personally.

History is so much easier when it's not yours.


End file.
